


Old Glory

by hitlikehammers



Series: Not A Euphemism [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Avengers-Themed Sex Toys, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Oblivious Grandpas, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex Toys, Started as PWP but then grew Rampant Steve/Bucky Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky doesn’t start the day aiming to end up in Stark’s room. No, seriously.</p><p>But that menace of an AI-butler-security-asshat had to be <i>stopped</i>. And Bucky thought that maybe, just maybe, said-asshat's off-switch might be in the nightstand.</p><p>And that puts him here. With a very patriotic sex toy in his hand. One that he could <i>almost</i> fool himself into believing was a generic sort of deal, until he sees the stylization of the star half-way down. Also, he’s pretty sure that shade of blue’s been trademarked.</p><p>“I can get you your own, y’know,” Stark smirks from the doorway: “No need to stoop to using mine.”</p><p>Bucky’s brain goes blank.</p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Inspired by <a href="http://sarmai.tumblr.com/post/57774699811/6-pieces-of-pleasure">this art post</a>.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Glory

**Author's Note:**

> Because talking to the lovely [weepingnaiad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad), who was kind enough to also beta this when it was done, made me remember [this epicness](http://sarmai.tumblr.com/post/57774699811/6-pieces-of-pleasure), and as such, made me want to write about it again. Surprise, surprise.
> 
>  
> 
> Exists in the same universe as [Stars & Stripes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/936618), if you're interested, but reading that is not essential to the understanding of this fic.

Bucky doesn’t start the day aiming to end up in Stark’s room.

No, seriously.

But every on switch has an off switch. Every computer has a mute. Every machine can be taken off-line.

He should know.

And god _damnit_ , but if this JARVIS thing continues _fucking_ with him, all “Another punching bag for the waste disposal, then. I suppose that _does_ make a round hundred,” and “A fifth espresso, Sergeant Barnes? Perhaps some of Mr. Stark’s preferred kale smoothie would be more appropriate,” and “Would you like me to queue up the Netflix, Sergeant Barnes? Perhaps some stimulation to break up the endless litany of your staring at the walls would be beneficial, though Miss Potts would undoubtedly be most flattered that you’re so enjoying her art collection.”

And let’s not forget Bucky’s personal favorite: “Sergeant Barnes, are you well? Your vitals have spiked since your shower, which ran at approximately fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit for the entirety of its duration, and therefore cannot account for the rise in blood pressure—”

For fuck’s _sake_.

S’not his fault he hadn’t gotten a stiffy since the 40s, not ‘til here, not ‘til after.

And it’s certainly not his goddamn fault that Steve makes him remember the 40s real fucking well, from the smell of the sun in the empty streets, to the crook of his smile on a much smaller face.

To the way Bucky could rub one out under a cold fucking spray and it wouldn’t do a damn thing, because there he was, standing at attention, five goddamned seconds later. 

And to think, that sort of rebound used to be a swell little trick, didn’t it?

So the fact remains that Bucky never intended to end up in Stark’s room, that day. 

But that menace of an AI-butler-security-asshat had to be _stopped_.

And it is because that accented fucker has to be stopped that Bucky finds himself here, like this: it’s because the off switch had been harder to find than he’d thought and he figured maybe, just maybe, it was in the nightstand, maybe.

And that puts him here.

With a very patriotic fucktoy in his hand. A patriotic fucktoy he could _almost_ fool himself into believing was a generic sort of deal, until he sees the stylization of the star half-way down.

Also, he’s pretty sure that shade of blue’s been trademarked.

“I can get you your own, y’know,” the voice comes from the doorway: “No need to stoop to using mine.”

And Stark, fucking _Stark_ just _stands_ there, like it’s not his fucking fault, like it’s not his fault he has an evil computer running the whole fucking tower, like it’s not his fault said computer won’t shut its goddamned trap, like it’s not his _fucking fault_ that he has a _vibrator_ that’s themed, that’s made, that’s shaped like—

“I sucked him off, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Bucky’s brain goes blank.

“With your eyes,” Stark clarifies. “Your eyes were definitely asking whether I sucked him off.”

Bucky scowls.

“I’m a curious kind of guy,” Stark shrugs. “Insatiable quest for the unknown and whatnot. The opportunity was there, so I took it. Helpful hand between friends,” Stark licks his lips, and Bucky hates him. “Or you know, helpful lips, helpful tongue.”

Bucky _hates_ him.

“He said your name.”

Bucky stills. Rewinds the words. Watches them form and fall from Stark’s stupid mouth in his mind’s eye, slow, careful: checking and rechecking that it’s real, that he’s not just making shit up in his head.

Wouldn’t be the first time wishful thinking got the best of him, not where this is concerned.

“I didn’t mention it, obviously, because what do I care? Other than to,” Stark’s face scrunches, and his eyes glaze a little, soften a little. “To feel for him, I guess.” He tilts his head in Bucky’s direction. “Didn’t know yet that you were still alive and kicking, after all. Post…train.”

Bucky bites his tongue and stares, because Stark’s sucked Steve’s dick, and Stark’s a smart ass, and Stark’s a brilliant fuck that needs someone to smack him down a few pegs every now and again, that much is true if nothing else is.

But Stark also says that when Steve came in his mouth, Steve said _Bucky’s_ name.

So, instead of saying anything, Bucky bites his tongue just a little bit harder.

“I can’t believe you don’t see the way he looks at you,” Stark shakes his head, and it’s hard to take it all in, hard to take the man seriously when he’s gesturing idly with a tri-colored dildo in one hand. “But whatever, you spent a lot of time on ice with the bolsheviks, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt if you haven’t put two and two together yet,” Stark grins, wide and shit-eating in the precise way that the adjective was in fact created to describe: “I’m nice like that.”

Tony Stark is nice like a bullet wound, or a cryochamber, or a century of blue balls because the stupid blond punk you’re crazy about’s an idiot.

Tony Stark is nice like _that_.

“But you hung his moon and lit his stars and shine like his goddamned sun and all that other bullshit.” Tony snorts, shakes his head. “You’re the proverbial ‘it,’ Klondike.”

Bucky swallows, because he wants, but trust’s a tricky thing, always was, but never more than now, and all he can manage to say is: “Klondike?”

Because, _honestly_.

“Yeah, Klondike,” Stark nods an affirmative. “Capsicle, Klondike. Frozen treat, hard shell, creamy loveable center.” He grins cheekily, batting his eyelashes.

Bucky deigns to roll his eyes. 

“He wouldn’t look me in the eyes for a good few weeks, after,” Stark tacks on, picking the thread of the non-conversation they’re very much not having in Stark’s bedroom with a fucking Captain America vibrator being pointed at Bucky’s person indicatively. “If it helps for me to spell it out: it was a one time thing, and it didn’t mean anything, it was good fun, and I mean...”

Stark trails, and Bucky can feel it, the shift in the atmosphere, the tenor of the room.

“I get around, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Stark wiggles his brows a bit, but it’s half-hearted, more introspective. “And believe it or not, we don’t share this bed with just anyone,” Stark nods at the mattress, and tilts his head in consideration when Stark’s voice drops, just a bit. “They’re all special, they’re all important.”

“But Pepper’s my,” Stark’s hand reaches out, strokes gently against the pillow on the side that, given the bottle of Chanel and the hand cream pump on the accompanying nightstand, isn’t his. “Well,” Stark smiles, soft then: he looks almost human, almost like a good person.

Almost.

“She’s my Bucky Barnes,” he says, a little snide, but it’s a hollow cover at best: the sincerity leaks out, and pervades.

“He could fuck the whole city, man,” Stark says, watching Bucky carefully, speaking slow less in an insulting way, more like he’s trying to make it all sink in. “Cap’s still only got eyes for you.”

Bucky blinks; blinks again. 

It doesn’t quite sink in, despite Stark’s efforts.

“And if you _still_ don’t believe me,” Stark drawls, the softness in his voice twisting into something far more devious, something far more recognizable as _him_. “You might want to poke around _his_ bedside table.”

Bucky stares, blankly. Stark’s smirk grows, and again.

Fucking terrifying.

“You know these come as a set, right?” Stark asks, shaking the star-spangled vibrator in his hand with gusto.

Bucky tries not to gape as he asks: “A set?”

The quirk at the side of Stark’s mouth tells him that, even if he manages to keep his jaw hinged, Stark can read the sentiment in his tone.

“Mmmhmm, whole team.” Stark brushes past him, crouching by the nightstand where this had all started and opening the drawer. “The Widow’s in here somewhere,” Stark rummages. “Bruce took the Hulk last time he stayed the night, wanted to make a few,” and Stark looks up, grinning with the kind of enthusiasm reserved solely for the use of a very specific brand of illegal substance as he damn near _purrs_ : “Upgrades.”

Right. Image Number Seven Hundred and Twenty Two that Bucky did not need in his brain.

“Point is,” Stark stands, replacing the red, white, and blue member and shoving the drawer closed with his knee. “You’re a member of the team, now.”

Bucky blinks. Bucky blinks.

Oh.

Oh _shit_.

“Your limited run had presales even _I_ couldn’t have anticipated,” Stark says, matter-of-fact, but Bucky’s not stupid, he can read the gloating like a fucking neon sign. “The _Winter Sarge_.”

The Winter...

“Seriously?” Because if that’s not the absolute fucking _worst_ thing to call a sex toy—

“You got a better idea for naming your dildo?” Stark quirks a brow.

Fine. Okay. Point.

“Anyway,” Stark picks back up. “ _Someone_ ,” he tilts his head pointedly; “was very _opposed_ , shall we say, to the idea of such a piece reaching its adoring public.”

And that smirk, that fucking Tony Stark smirk is a terrifying thing. Not in itself, but for all that it implies.

Terrifying.

“He threatened me until I bought the patent, seized the prototype, and halted production before the first wave rolled out,” Stark informs him, grinning so hard he’s damn well going to break his face.

Or maybe that’s Bucky. Maybe he’s grinning so hard that _Bucky’s_ going to break his goddamned face.

“Had to reimburse all those eager fans for their preorders, too,” Stark shakes his head. “Nightmare,” and he shivers, like maybe it _was_ , and that makes Bucky feel a little bit vindicated as Stark laments: “Pep stayed at Nat’s for a week, after that.”

And it’s Bucky’s turn to smirk, now, wide and feral for just a _second_ , because he has it on very good authority that Natasha’s just as much a revelation in bed as she is everywhere else. 

Stark’s lucky Pepper only stayed a week.

“Check his nightstand, though,” Stark says, nodding at him in a way that’s very much about shooing him, except you don’t fucking shoo a goddamned sniper, whether he’s in your bedroom or not.

“Check it, and see who he keeps close at night.”

Stark’s looking at him with knowing eyes that make Bucky itch inside his skin because for all the things he’s seen, for all the shit he’s done, Bucky’s still—biologically-speaking—younger than this assclown, and they both know it, and Bucky knows it doesn’t mean a damn thing but Stark.

 _Stark_.

Bucky damn near growls as he retreats, because he’s curious, he’s horny—he’s been head over goddamned heels in love for the better part of a century—and in this, with this: Stark’s got him by the balls.

Literally.

  


___________________________________

  


Bucky actually does start the day aiming to end up in Steve’s room.

That’s how he generally starts most of his days.

But Stark’s not jerking him around: Steve doesn’t even make much of an effort to hide the generously-sized titanium self-lubing vibrator, ribbed delicately, equipped with a variety of KY to slick—on demand—the length of what, for all intents and purposes, look very much like a miniature replica of his left arm.

A little _too_ much like a miniature replica of his left arm. 

He hears Steve’s footsteps halt at the door, and Bucky doesn’t move, makes sure he doesn’t move: just continues to consider the item in his hands with wide eyes and ignores, as best he can, the sudden jackhammering of his heart.

“The Soviets didn’t brand my dick, you know.” 

He can damn well _hear_ the way Steve swallows.

“Though if you like the metallic feel,” Bucky smirks, and he can fucking feel the pulse in his neck, the tightness in his chest as raises his arm but doesn’t look, can’t _look_ : “This here’s a real talented hand.”

Steve gasps, chokes: “Buck—”

And there’s something tantalizing, there’s something terrifying, there’s something necessary in that sound, in the note of that voice, the tone of that breath on his name— _his_ goddamned _name_ : there’s something there that overcomes, that trumps all the fear and the ache and the sick roil in his gut; something there that makes him look, because it’s Steve.

It’s Steve, and he’ll always look, he’ll always _need_.

And Steve’s eyes are wide, and his chest is heaving, and his cheeks are red but he’s so fucking quiet, and his throat works hard around every swallow, tight enough that Bucky can see the match of his own thumping heart at the neck there, fast and frantic and it takes an effort, it takes all that he has not to leap, not to panic, because it’s the bad nights, the worst night from before when Steve was breakable, when his heart couldn’t take it, when his lungs couldn’t stand the strain.

“Jesus, Steve,” is what Bucky manages as a compromise, half a laugh and half a sob. “Your lungs might not be tryin’a choke you anymore but you’ve still gotta breathe in order to live.”

Steve’s eyes stretch bigger, brighter, and his chest stills, and Bucky’s whole world stands suspended until Steve breathes out, until his lashes flutter and he steadies, until his breaths come even, if shallow sometimes, before they go deep.

“Right,” Bucky exhales slow, and tells his body, tells his soul that he needs to be solid, he needs to be grounded in this, in everything he knows in his bones: in this thing that defines him, that stayed hidden, buried, but the embers never died—this thing that led him back, that brought him home.

This thing that _is_ his home.

He takes a deep breath in.

“I think it’s about time we stopped tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, yeah?”

“Elephant?” Steve scoffs, but it’s hollow, it’s an attempt to make light of the heaviness that’s starting to gather and press inward from all sides. “Seriously? You couldn’t—”

“What is this?” Bucky cuts him off, nods to the toy in his lap, and well, fuck.

Here he was thinking Steve couldn’t go no paler than he used to in the winters, the _bad_ winters in Brooklyn, once upon a time.

“Ain’t it obvious?” 

And Steve’s voice tries to be defiant, tries to be strong but it’s so fucking small, and it’s almost like Steve forgets, now, how all those used to fit together. Bucky hasn’t, though.

Bucky hasn’t forgotten.

“Don’t play coy,” Bucky glares at him, half-hearted, mostly grim. “Is this something to go to bed with when you’re too strung out to sleep, when you need just a little nudge to let the fuck go?” 

Bucky’s throat’s dry, but that ain’t no excuse to back down, so he doesn’t. 

“Or does it mean something? Is it something you,” Bucky clears his throat, because it’s starting to get rough without his permission. “Is it something you wish could be more?”

Steve’s mouth works, flapping like a fish outside the water, and Bucky wants to laugh, Bucky wants to cry, Bucky wants to take that mouth and learn the taste of every corner, the shape of it from the inside.

Bucky wants, and so he crosses the last of all these lines that maybe, just maybe, were only ever there for show, anyway.

“I love you.”

And there. There. It’s said. His heart trails down, back where it belongs, bangs heavy on his ribs as it shivers, as it trips like a fool at the dumbfounded look on Steve’s face, and the way those gorgeous fucking lips part and hold, all slick and red and open. 

“I am goddamn stupid with how much I love you, Steven Grant Rogers,” Bucky pushes on, and the truth is a sweet thing in his mouth, makes the sharpness in his chest almost subtle, almost faint. “And I’ve loved you for a fucking lifetime. Maybe,” his voice catches on the broken pieces that he hasn’t fit back into a whole just yet—the lost parts that the person he’s becoming still hit on and snag. 

“Maybe two lifetimes,” he whispers, and the weight of his words outshine the weight of anything else: “depending how you break it down.”

“So either way, punk,” Bucky grins, and there’s a burn in his chest that boils up behind his eyes: “Either way, I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

And he meets Steve’s gaze, and for all that he’s still learning, he prays there’s enough of him, unshielded and untamed and unruined in his own eyes for Steve to know it, to read it, to _see_ , and never doubt, because this is in his hands, now, this is in Steve’s hands, and Bucky’s not good with giving up, with giving in, with leaving himself vulnerable with no method of retreat, no ready defense. 

But for Steve; for Steve, he’ll try. So it’s in Steve’s hands.

Bucky’s in Steve’s hands as he mouths, more than speaks:

“Make your call.”

It’s hours, it’s decades, it’s the whole of his life and more, all the endless breaths that make him feel empty and cold: the silence that follows is one of the worst things Bucky’s ever known.

And that’s fucking saying something.

So it’s not surprising that his eyes close, that his expression caves, that he flinches against the way something new and hopeful starts to decay in his blood. It’s not surprising that he doesn’t watch as it all comes crashing down.

It’s not surprising that he misses the way Steve’s whole body trembles, the way Steve’s face threatens to crack open under the force of something that the word ‘joy’ doesn’t deserve, because joy’s not good enough, not vast enough, not rooted enough in the heart and the marrow of his bones.

It’s not surprising that Bucky’s bracing for a blow.

He’s just expecting it to be one that kills from the inside, not one that clobbers from without.

Because before he can breathe out the worst of the first wave of agony, Steve is there, Steve is on him, Steve’s body is covering his own and Steve’s thighs are bracing Bucky’s waist and where Bucky’s getting hard Steve’s already there, the length of him dug into Bucky’s groin and he moans, Christ, but he moans like anything and Steve leans in to suck against the line of his jaw and he’s warm, god, he’s so warm, and his breath is all wet and hot and fierce, and for the slow grind he’s building between their cocks, for the marks he’s making against Bucky’s neck, it’s the heave of his solid chest against Bucky’s own, clanging harsh and full on impact but gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous that Bucky can barely breathe.

“When you left,” Steve gasps into the hollow of his throat, and Bucky swears that he can feel the condensation of Steve’s breath there tremble with the thunder of his pulse. “When you left I was so scared, and I thought, how stupid, how fucking stupid,” and Steve’s hands are cupping his ass, and Steve’s hooking his thumbs beneath the waist of Bucky’s jeans, and Bucky lifts when Steve pulls and rolls his hips, surges up to catch Steve’s lips as he breathes out: “What a _coward_ , I—”

Bucky swallows the rest of the words and trails his hands, hot and hungry and so fucking _ready_ for this, for this man against him, around him, _perfect_ , and he’d thought his hands might shake when he went to unbuckle Steve’s belt, but they don’t, they aren’t. They’re steady, they’re sure, they _need_.

He runs his hands under Steve’s shirt, lifts it, lets his palms linger on Steve’s chest and lets it all sink in.

Jesus _Christ_.

Steve throws his shirt across the room and leans in, sucks on Bucky’s bottom lip until he moans.

“And then, when I found you again,” and Steve’s naked, Steve’s all bare skin and solid muscle, all heat and baby blues and the beating heart in his chest, and Bucky thinks about everything that’s come and gone, all that’s been lost and gained and wonders when it started balancing, when it started tipping in his favor because there’s this, there’s _this_ and Steve’s arching down and tracing Bucky’s teeth with his tongue as long as he can manage, as long as they can take. 

“When I found you and you were right in front of me it was too much, it was too good, I could remember who I was, and I couldn’t, what if you,” Steve pants in a line, in a trail from Bucky’s mouth to the center of his chest, a wet peppering in the shape of his lisp, and when he gasps, when he shakes it’s cold on the dampness, it’s friction on their cocks at the base and Bucky shivers in a way that, he realizes now, is so much different than from cold.

And Steve’s mouth pauses, presses hard and aching and fierce where Bucky’s heart’s thumping the hardest, straight between his ribs, and he’s there, he’s there and Bucky cants his hips and Steve’s teeth catch on the skin, drag against the pounding underneath and when Steve gasps, when Steve moans into him and nearly sobs the words that follow, Bucky wants to cry, Bucky wants to come, Bucky wants to somehow press his flesh and blood and bones against Steve until he never knows the world as it spins without this man.

“And when I lost you,” Steve whispers, and it’s all broken and jagged and it sounds like Bucky feels on the bad days, on the worst days, and that’s wrong, that’s wrong when Steve feels like that, because Steve was never meant to hurt, not like this.

“When I lost you, your hands,” and Steve grabs for those hands, and Bucky won’t ever stop marveling at the way Steve’s never shied from the metal, never balked or hesitated, and Bucky won’t ever stop being grateful for what sensation he now has in the limb, the way he can grasp and stroke at Steve’s fingers with a tenderness that Steve reads, that Steve knows and melts into, clutching his wrists with an endless sort of need.

“Your hands were stretched out as you fell,” Steve rasps, and he ducks his head so that he’s breathing straight hard down toward Bucky’s stomach, the stray bits dancing against his skin, against the tip of his dick as he feels himself start to twitch, feel wetness start to bead at the slit but he closes his eyes and lifts Steve’s hand in his own—in his _own_ , because the metal is _his_ now—and presses his lips to the palm as Steve’s breathing hitches, and his voice starts to crack. 

“And all the parts of me that mattered, they fell with you,” Steve exhales in a rush, a confession, and Bucky feels the throbbing oh Steve’s blood at the wrist he holds, in the hard length of his cock against Bucky’s thigh.

“When they woke me up, I hated them for it,” Steve breathes, ruts down into the give of Bucky’s leg, and it’s so much less of a physical thing than it is something deeper, so much less than sexual when it feels like a prayer. 

“What use was it,” Steve murmurs, starting a rhythm that’s heated and filled with the tears neither one of them will let fall, not like this. “What use was it to be awake if I didn’t know who I was,” Steve’s hips stutter, and Bucky’s hands grasp them, hold them, bring him back to rights as he shakes his head, back and forth and back and forth like it’ll change something, like it’ll erase the hurt: “If I didn’t have...”

And something in Steve gives, and Bucky—for everything that’s happened, for everything that’s changed; for _everything_ , when Steve gives and his body slump heavy against Bucky’s, it’s automatic, it’s instinct: Bucky grasps him, Bucky holds him, Bucky lifts him by the arms, by the walls of his chest and looks at him like he deserves.

Looks at him like he’s the whole goddamned world.

“You are everything that’s worth anything,” Steve breathes out, stuttering and small but so fucking _relentless_ with it, like he will protect this one thing, this one truth, until he gasps out his last. 

“When I found you again,” Steve grinds out, like it breaks something, like it hurts: “When I saw you, when you didn’t,” Steve flinches, and it’s like he can’t catch his breath, which means Bucky can’t catch his breath, which means Bucky’s hands are on him tighter, firmer, digging into the ribs of him to remind himself Steve’s real—to reminds Steve that _this_ is real, now.

This is real.

“I’d have died by your hands,” Steve whispers, and Bucky can feel it in the trembling of Steve’s chest that a whisper’s all he can muster, all he can take, and that’s okay.

A whisper more than ruins Bucky, more than makes it all clear.

“I’d have died by your hands because it felt more real than anything I’d known since you were gone,” Steve gasps, bites into Bucky’s neck, right where the blood flows, and Bucky’s breath catches, Bucky’s arms snake around Steve’s body and draw him in, in, in.

“And I,” Steve’s voice starts to crack, start to fall out at the seams. 

“I need you,” he mouths into Bucky’s skin, and Bucky feels it, feels every word and all the words that live inside them, all the things that are seeping out from the little breaches in all that Steve is as he starts to break apart where it’s safe, where he’s pressed to Bucky and knows that breaking won’t mean any losses, won’t bring about any ends.

“You’re the, the,” and Steve shakes, or maybe Bucky shakes, or maybe they both shake, but Steve’s lips catch and his teeth graze and Bucky can feel the racket Steve’s heart making in his chest where they’re pressed real close, and this is everything, this is _everything_.

“You’re the soul, in me,” Steve whispers, and all that Bucky’s ever tried to contain, ever tried to hide: all that he is and was and wants and needs and dreams starts to shiver and snap apart, start to quake and break free from his heaving chest and his open mouth and his trembling hands as Steve _breathes_ : “All the parts keep ticking, but there’s no heart in it, not without you.”

And Bucky gets that. Bucky gets that because that’s the very thing that makes his blood flood, makes his world spin, makes him remember in the blink of an eye, in the middle of the night, when the monsters and the demons and the past break out and prey: that’s what makes him remember who he is, where he is, and what he lives for.

Bucky _gets_ it, and so he surges up into Steve’s waiting body and fills Steve’s empty spaces, shores up the all the chinks not in the armor, but in the man as he lifts them both, fits them both together and presses Steve’s mouth to his own with a sense of urgency, with a sense of necessity, with a sense of the kind of inevitability that tastes infinite and warm, and Steve meets him, Steve fits him, Steve loves him back.

Bucky can _feel_ it.

So he turns them, flips them chest to chest so Bucky can work his way down, so Bucky can watch Steve’s eyes go big and dark as he sucks his way down Steve’s body, braces at his thighs and draws circles, never-ending in the skin.

“Buck,” Steve gasps, breathy and gorgeous as Bucky moves, open-mouthed toward Steve’s hips, Steve’s groin, the straining length of Steve’s cock. “Oh _Christ_ , Buck—”

“Only you, Stevie,” Bucky speaks, lips down the shaft as he watches the way Steve’s face slackens, the way his chest rises and falls like the damned world’s ending. “Always you,” and he closes his lips around the slit of Steve’s dick, gentle, barely there and Steve damn well _keens_ for it as Bucky takes the risk that’s not a risk, teases the swell of Steve’s sac with his metal hand as he reaches, as he looks Steve in the eyes as he offers flesh fingers at Steve’s lips and swears, vows:

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, not ever again, not unless you want me to.”

“Never gonna happen,” Steve nips at Bucky’s fingertips before he sucks around them, hard as Bucky massages his balls. 

“S’been close on ninety years, now,” Steve gasps. “Ain’t never gonna want to be where you’re not.”

And Bucky shouldn’t be surprised, he should think twice when Steve works a hand down to meet Bucky’s between his legs and eases it away, leads it up to switch places with the skin and bone he’d been licking around, sucking against; Bucky shouldn’t be speechless, shouldn’t be staring with his throat getting tight as Steve lets his flesh hand go and starts sucking, swift and close against the metal digits, eyes glittering with intent.

And Bucky’s hard, he’s _aching_ in a way he’s never known as Steve lifts up to his knees, balances on his haunches and lets Bucky’s fingers slip from his lips just to crush those lips to Bucky’s own, just to map Bucky’s mouth with the kind of fevor Bucky’s only dared to dream of, never known in the flesh.

And Bucky can’t help the way he rocks into Steve’s body, the way his arms grip at Steve’s skin like it wants him, like it beckons for it: he can’t help the way his palms cup Steve’s ass and pull him closer, ease him higher to damn well sit on Bucky’s lap so their dicks are lined up just so, so that Bucky’s fingers are splayed to spread Steve at the cleft of him, teasing inward, but only just.

“Mind if I go ahead and see how these measure up to the competition?” he pants, breathless and wanton in a way he never dared to dream he’d get to—not like this, not _them_ —as he watches Steve through his lashes, his heart counting out half-seconds as he tries to smirk, tries to balance the way this consumes him down to the cells with something like levity, something like air that he can breathe.

“We both know how you fucking measure up,” Steve breathes out onto his lips, into his mouth before he kisses him, hard and heady and damn near obscene, rolling his hips so that Bucky’s waiting fingers settle, brush at his opening. 

“And I’ll more than mind if you don’t get to it,” Steve murmurs, tracing the tip of his nose up the line of Bucky’s profile, lower lip catching wet against Bucky’s cheek as he turns, as he damn near growls: “ _Now_.”

And Bucky, well, when it comes to Steve?

He’s never been real good at saying no.  
  
___________________________________

  


Tony throws his head back against the sofa as soon as he catches wind of the Moan-Heard-Round-The-Tower.

“Dear god, _finally_.”

Because seriously: either the ice fried their brains, or Barnes and Rogers are the most oblivious fucks on the planet.

No, seriously. Call Guinness. These two geriatrics are world-record worthy, for sure. 

“You do realize, sir, that the ethics of your scheme—”

“Don’t call it a scheme, JARVIS, that cheapens it,” Tony scolds, because, it does. 

Cheapen it. 

“I was…” Tony pauses, thinks of the best way to phrase his grand non-scheme. “Playing the long game,” he decides. “And these two love birds need never know the details. I am content to bask in my victory on the downlow.”

“How very unlike you,” JARVIS drawls. “Shall I initiate some preliminary scans to check for any health conditions that might explain this uncharacteristic modesty?”

“You know, I ask myself every morning, why did I program him with sarcasm?” Tony laments. “And then I ask myself, what’s keeping me from programming it _out_ of him?”

“Figurative though your comments obviously are, as I can provide ample proof that you do not ask yourself either question upon waking, I suspect you rather enjoy my wit,” JARVIS counters.

The bastard.

“Wit’s a word for it, sure,” Tony snarks. “But that _aside_ ,” and he grows quiet, holds up a hand as he listens—until.

Oh, yes. Not _quite_ the moan from before, but definitely worth noting. Cap’s got a set of lungs on him, truly.

“Hmm, yes,” Tony nods. “Quite satisfactory results. No need to detract from the positive outcome by dwelling on all the boring details.”

“Shall I assume that the fact that you blatantly manipulated the Sergeant and the Captain into acknowledging their affections has nothing to do with your reluctance to admit to said interference?”

“It’s called matchmaking, JARVIS, and you assume correctly. Nothing at all to do with it.”

“So I’m to understand that Captain Rogers will continue to labor under the misapprehension that Operation: Winter Sarge was _not_ a project of your devising, only ever involving a single prototype that _I_ was given the dubious pleasure of assembling?”

“Hey,” Tony frowns, pointing a finger at the ceiling because, well… JARVIS could be there as much as he’s anywhere. “That thing would have made millions. Klondike’s a real hit with the public, all tall-dark-and-formerly-morally-dubious.” 

"And I suspect we likewise don't need to tell them that you accessed the Hydra files on Sergeant Barnes' anatomical structure so as to craft the only _fully_ accurate model in the series, is that right, sir?"

"Watch that tone, JARVIS, or I'll stick you with Dummy for a time-out."

Tony’s really appreciating the fact that he didn’t program the AI with the capacity for derisive laughter. 

"Nor do we have to tell them that you purchased stock in KY to badger their developers on the chemical composition of their warming and cooling personal lubricants to install both in said model, correct?"

"Shut _up_ , JARVIS."

Tony’s not petulant. No. He’s a grown fucking adult, and he doesn’t argue with artificially intelligent computers.

"Not to mention the fact that—"

"I will donate you to fucking CUNY for spare parts, I am not even _kidding_."

And Tony’s not really appreciating the fact that he didn’t program JARVIS with the capacity for derisive laughter anymore. 

As it stands, its unvocalized presence from on high is more than effective.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com), if you dig.


End file.
